Encounters
by Sachita
Summary: "They reminded him of the couples from the ancient fables with their odd resolve and good looks; though young they had something oddly doomed and forsaken about them." A look at Tom's and Minerva's relationship over the years. TRMM.


_Hello everyone! This has been written for the "Sell me a Ship Competition". It's a story about Tom and Minerva, yet told from different perspectives as I wanted to try something new. And please tell me about mistakes that make you scream in front of your computer, English is not my first language, so please tell me if I tortured the poor language badly somewhere in this story ;)  
><em>

_I hope you like it and please tell me what you think of it :) Reviews make my day!_

_Sachita ;-)_

__Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling. No copyright infringement intended.__

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><p><strong>Encounters<strong>

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><p><strong>I: Mad Children, December 29th, 1940<strong>

Each noise as deafening as the rams' horns that had brought about the fall of Jericho. Each sound like a great groan from Sisyphus's lips as he yet again attempted to finish his unending task.

This night was like the metaphorical sword of Damocles; hanging over them like the decisive, missing link-would it fall? Would the great city of London fall this night?

It was like a question to be answered by one of those choice games from the game theory that his colleagues from the faculties of economics and mathematics were so fond of. Not that he understood much of that- he laughed slightly, not that he wanted to at any rate. Yet in this night he would have given anything just to sit opposite Professor Theodore Marks in the dusty silence of the old university, listening to his old friend ranting about the Stackelberg model and other such things before he would end with an indulgent smirk on his wise face and a remark that a scholar of Christian Theology and Greek Mythology probably had no room left in-between Oedipus and Isaiah for some down-to-earth economics.

It was an odd experience to be here, tonight, as the Blitz raged around him. Here being a air-raid shelter in Whitechapel, London, to be precise.

Maybe it was true what they said about the academics, he mused contemplatively, that they got too lost in their own worlds and spheres to notice what was going on around them. It was easy to get oneself lost in one's studies even when the world around as you knew it was falling apart more and more with each passing day. Maybe that had been phrased badly. It was even easier to immerse yourself in texts about glorious, passed days of Ancient Greece when the world you lived in was on the brink of collapse.

There was talk of abandoning the university building for the duration of the war and many had already left, but he had refused. He loved the old university too much, having been a part of it for so long that he knew he wouldn't be able to bear parting from it. So here he now was, having been surprised by this attack on his way back to the place he considered as good as home and was now sitting among the people of London, a random mix of all groups of society that had made it in with him.

To his left was a young girl with long braids who would ever so often press her face into the crook of her mother's neck; while her mother, a woman with a worn-out yet gentle face murmured soft words of nothing to her child while at the same time attempting to comfort her other two children that sat next to her with faces made out of stone: a boy, no older than ten years and his older sister.

He honestly admired that woman's strength; she seemed to be a personification of Gaia, the mother of all in Greek Mythology.

Lined up on the wall beyond the mother were stoic-faced workers, all of them wearing flat-caps and long coats. From time to time they would send him suspicious looks. He supposed that he could not really fault them for that for he did cut an odd figure with his old-fashioned gentleman's frock and the golden fob watch he wore on a slender chain.

Beyond the workers were many, many other people just visible in the darkness; with blankets, coats and so many, many fearful pairs of eyes…he closed his eyes in silent despair as the horrifying sounds from outside continued. The air was stale and tasted of smoke. Somewhere, a child was crying.

He couldn't have said how long he sat there with his eyes closed, but eventually, just eventually the sounds became quieter and he opened his eyes again to face a child just on his right side. A boy.

Startled, he looked at the intense gaze of the boy, who was maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. A white-faced girl cowered at his side; she was maybe around his age. The boy wore grey, shabby clothes- the usual ensemble of cotton trousers, a pair of braces and a shirt. But the girl was clad in clothes that, even if practical, looked a bit too fine for her to be connected to the boy in any way. The Professor looked out for any guardians that accompanied the children but he found none.

Sighing heavily, he addressed the boy: "Where are your parents?"

A scowl and eyes full of hate in the pale face. "I have none." With a slight sneer, the boy clarified : "Wool's Orphanage."

"I see," he nodded, attempting to be pacifying, already feeling bad for having asked but he could tell the boy would react badly to pity. "What about your companion?"

Distrust now clearly on the young face; the blue eyes of the boy shrewd as they glanced at him. "She is with me."

"I am with him," the girl now spoke up, clutching the boy's hand as if it were a lifeline. The pair of them reminded the old Professor of the couples from the ancient fables with their odd resolve and good looks; though young they had something oddly doomed and forsaken about them. He shook the thought off.

"Are you a Professor from University?" the girl asked, her green eyes curious in the dim light of the makeshift incandescent lamps hanging from wires over their heads, the regular subway lighting having failed months ago.

"I am," he replied, "my fields of studies are Ancient Greek Mythology and Christian Theology."

"A priest?" The boy's words dripped with scorn and the blue eyes regarded him unabashedly, although the girl seemed to be trying to reprimand him for his rudeness, as if she had been taught a rigid set of manners. How interesting.

"Not a priest," he answered gently. He was an easy-going man and by far too tired to be riled up by the words of a naïve child. "I merely seek to find answers to the many questions that this world offers us; by crossing the boundaries of reality and turning to metaphysical considerations."

"So you are attempting to understand the world by applying a set of man-made logics?"

Oh, a young sceptic. The Professor enjoyed a good challenge.

"Well, young man," he replied contemplatively, "you will find that there have been many great thinkers before your and my time and they deserve to be heard, do you not think? It is the wisdom of many that eventually shapes a complete picture. One person alone may be misled; but if many thinkers come together eventually a whole new perception will be created. Of course that can be faulted, as well," he added somewhat bitterly, abruptly brought back to reality with the sound of explosions in the distance, and he thought of the entire German Nation that was blindly following a madman.

The boy seemed to contemplate this for a few minutes. Then he turned his head so quickly that some of the raven locks of his jet-black hair fell into his eyes; and with an impatient move he swiped them away. "But is that not also a question of definition, what is good and what is evil, sir?"

The Professor frowned. "Well, there is a standard set of ethics that one must adhere to," he pointed out firmly, determined to set this rogue young boy right.

The rogue young boy didn't seem to want to be set right. "Evilness means inflicting hurt on others, doesn't it, sir?" he continued coolly, "yet would you also define someone who defends himself against, say a bully who has hurt him often, by retaliating against that bully and say…" he seemed to contemplate the ending of his sentence for a while before attaching a casual "…he would hang that bully's pet rabbit?"

Deeply disturbed, the Professor looked at the boy. Dear God, what was this war doing to Britain's youth and their morals?

"Of course that is evil as well," he retorted, a bit colder now, "because the person should show forgiveness and the higher moral standing towards the bully."

The girl was now pulling at the boy's arm. "I think you should leave the Professor alone now, Tom."

But the boy called Tom was still watching him shrewdly. "Thank you," he chuckled finally but it was an odd and dark chuckle for a fourteen-year-old. "Thank you for confirming my theories. I had a feeling that would be your reply, sir. It's a shame, really, that someone with your intelligence is not able to differentiate."

This time the Professor was truly insulted for the ability to differentiate was a skill they held high among academics, and he did, too.

But before he could say anything the girl intervened, her pretty face pulled into a disapproving frown. She was pursing her lips sternly.

"I am sorry for my companion's behaviour, sir. It's just the war, you see- it's making many of us lose their sight."

Indignant, he returned: "If you knew what is good for you, Miss, you would stay away from him."

The frown on her face intensified and he realised that this time the glare was directed at him. Sternly, she told him: "I am afraid that is none of your business, sir."

With that she turned away and the Professor knew that their conversation was over. He happened to catch the boy's eyes. There was a smirk on that handsome young face as he pulled his lady friend possessively closer. The Professor closed his eyes but the smirk was burned into his memory as if a curse had hit him.

Softly and sadly, he shook his head, despair overwhelming him like a tidal wave. What was this war doing to their children? It was driving them mad. Mad children…

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><p><strong>II: Young Love, August 1942<strong>

The old woman heard them before she saw them.

From far away came the sound of churchbells on this sunny Saturday, in-between the lazy sound of cow bells tinkling and from very close, the sound of two voices.

The old woman paused a moment to catch her breath, putting her hands on her thighs and bending over before straightening up and continuing on her way. She looked nearly lost in the Scottish Wilderness, a lone old woman with a heavy, wattled basket on her back. Had one looked from farther away one would have only seen the wild, sallow green meadows; smelled their sun-warmed and summer-heavy scent and heard the busy, monotonous buzzing of bees.

Down in the valley was a sheer bottomless lake that was encompassed by broad-leaved green trees.

And amidst all that was, right on a green hillock, the old woman in her grey cotton dress with the white pinafore and her wizened old face, from whence dark eyes, like pieces of coal, gleamed mischievously.

The beauty of the Scottish Highlands made one feel rather small, lost, but the old woman didn't mind. She had seen the Industrial Revolution's polluted cities as a young girl, remembered the Great War- supposed to end all wars as they'd said and she cackled softly at the thought- and she knew what life was like outside her little sanctuary and didn't care one bit for it.

No, the old Rosemary Gordon much preferred this to anything else. She was in the process of picking a few herbs with her gnarled fingers, face in suspicious wrinkles as she picked them up to smell at them. Some herbs could be mistaken for others, which were poisonous. Right in that moment she heard the voices again, closer and louder than before.

Pausing in her motions, she stopped and listened.

"…go back to school soon," she heard. A boy with a distinctive English accent that held a hint of the South…London, probably.

"Yes. But I don't know if I am actually looking forward to next school year." A girl's voice this time, with a strong accent that the old woman recognised immediately. A girl from the region, then, not that young anymore, maybe around sixteen or seventeen? She went through the list of girls of that age she knew from hereabouts- the McMills' daughter- nah, she was married to a farmer from far away, Edinburgh or thereabouts….Abigail Mackenzie? No, couldn't be. The voice was wrong…she went over a few more possibilities in her head and finally gave up. It all wouldn't fit.

The old woman listened as the boy spoke again.

"Oh hush, you will be fine. You will make a fabulous head girl."

"If you think so, Tom."

The boy laughed. "Come on, Minerva. Those are not empty words. You are brilliant and I love you."

Said quickly, words floating by like a leaf on a summer breeze. The old woman thought that the girl should rather be careful; such words were not meant to be spoken in haste.

The girl's voice was warm as she responded: "I love you, too, Tom. More than I can say."

Silence reigned for a few moments before the boy said: "So you are going through with your plans? After this year you will work at the Ministry?" Ministry, Ministry? Maybe the government in London, the old woman wondered. And besides, what was this about working…a woman's duty was it to bear children and look after the household. She had certainly done so before her husband had died back in '32…and now the children were all grown-up and had moved out.

"Yes, I received a letter of acceptance. What about you, Tom?"

"Well, I have two years to go still, so I am not sure yet." The boy's, Tom's, voice held a hint of closure but the girl did not seem to understand the hint.

"You must have a vague idea, Tom," she pressed on.

Sharply, he replied: "No. Leave it alone, Minerva. Like I said, I don't know yet."

The girl was silent and then the boy replied, gentler: "But whatever happens we shall be together, Minerva. You belong to me."

The old woman raised an eyebrow at that.

"You are such a charmer, Tom," the girl replied with what seemed like amusement. "You should know that I won't be imprisoned by anyone. Not even by you."

Instead of giving an angered reply, as the old woman had thought he would, the boy laughed. It sounded cheerful. "Your independent spirit is what I value most about you, indeed, Minerva. This is something for you…"

"An enchanted rose?" the girl breathed. "It's beautiful."

Enchanted roses? The old woman shook her head. Back in the day, they'd just called them flowers and put them into a vase. There was the unmistakable sound of kissing and the old woman chuckled to herself, taking her heavy basket up again and making to leave. But as she did so, she took a different path. She'd take a look at this lad and his lass. Ah, young love.

As she appeared in their field of vision, the two of them moved apart from what seemed to have been a passionate embrace immediately and the girl had the grace to blush although the boy looked unperturbed. She was a beautiful lass, with raven hair up in the usual hair rolls and those buns that the young people liked to wear, and green eyes that looked up at her warily.

He was a good-looking lad as well with dark blue eyes and dark hair, if a little pale and thin. But there was something odd about his gaze, the old woman decided.

He smirked at her- nearly derisively- and the old woman felt a little scared out of the sudden. There was something very cold about him.

She mumbled a quick greeting and made to go towards the village, her steps quicker when she was out of the young couple's sight. The memory of the young boy though stayed with her for a long time to come.

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><p><strong>III: Deceiving Appearances, October 1946<strong>

The autumn wind was chilly this year and the newspaper man sat shivering on his stack of newspapers. He'd wanted to buy a new coat for this winter, but the price for newspapers had decreased and as such also his salary. As a particularly harsh gust of wind tore through him, he huddled deeper into his coat, swearing at the world and at his life in general.

A late train was going to arrive from Scotland in a few minutes and the newspaper man hoped to sell some newspapers to the people arriving with that train. People from that high up in the North had to be eager for the latest news from London, he reasoned.

But ever since the war had ended a year before, business was going worse and worse.

"Break in at Mayfield" just didn't sound as spectacular as "Nazi-Germany declares war on US". The newspaper man laughed a little and coughed a lot more, scratching his stubbled chin. Of course he didn't want more war. He'd seen what it was like, in the trenches, fighting amidst the dead bodies of fellow comrades for his country, for his life and not least for his sanity. No.

He chuckled hoarsely. He didn't want more war. But a coat, that'a be nice.

The train from Scotland was pulling into the station now, water vapour rising up from the engine in a great cloud while it hissed and a deafening whistle tore through the evening air. There were few people about and the few that were just brushed past him without taking notice of his hoarse shouts "The latest news from London! Buy a newspaper, read what's new!"

Disappointed, the newspaper man wanted to sit down on his makeshift seat again, when he saw them.

There was mist creeping in from the cold autumn weather outside and steam clouds were still rising up from the engine, forming a nearly ethereal background to the scene that took place just before the weary man's eyes.

A Lady was getting out of the train, her silhouette slim and delicate, wearing an elegant hat. As she lifted her skirts to step over the gap between the platform and the train, the newspaper man got a glimpse of coral red lips and startling green eyes. A small peal of laughter escaped her well-rounded lips as she caught sight of a tall young man stepping out of the shadows. He was as handsome as she was beautiful, hair as black as raven's feathers crowned his head, and a pair of sombre blue eyes underneath thin eyebrows watched the Lady's arrival.

A smile broke out on his face then and the newspaper man could tell that the young man did not come by smiles very often for the smile seemed very strained.

Then, as the Lady stepped closer, the handsome young man bent down to cup her face in his hands as if it were the most precious thing he'd ever beheld. After a long moment that could have been years for all the newspaper man knew had it not been for the steady ticking of the station clock in the background- tick – tock- tick –tock – the young man lowered his face to the Lady's and kissed her.

The newspaper man stood, motionless, and gazed at them; the young couple embracing in the foggy evening silence, while the old station clock went tick-tock-tick-tock, two black silhouettes in the white haze. He felt how his faith in humanity was restored that day.

There was good after all, in spite of this war which had just ended; this war that had warped his thinking and tainted his mind. The newspaper man allowed himself to think of the young honey-locked Lady he'd left behind before he had departed to this gruesome war and he thought, for a moment, of her apple cakes and her kisses that had tasted of apples too.

As the couple passed him, he lifted his cap and wished them very cordially a "Good evening", to which the Lady replied in kind with just the slightest trace of a Scottish accent while the man's "'Evening" held traces of London's East End and was slightly cold- but the newspaper man honestly didn't mind. He hadn't felt so warm ever since the thought had nagged at him that he needed a new coat.

And it was truly a good thing that he didn't know.

It was a good thing he didn't know as he went to sleep that day, dreaming of his honey-locked girl that he'd left behind.

It was a good thing he didn't know as he told of the perfect couple he'd seen over a pint of Ale in his favourite pub for it might just have confirmed his war-tainted beliefs and shattered his faith in humanity forever.

It was a good thing he didn't know that the young handsome man would end up becoming a mass murderer, killing hundreds without remorse in the name of power.

It was a good thing he didn't know that the Lady would end up heartbroken, teaching children to make sure that none of them ended up to become like her one-time lover.

It was a good thing, indeed, for appearances are after all, still only appearances, and the newspaper man did know what they said about those.

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><p><strong>IV: The rose, June 1954<strong>

The afternoon sun fell in golden slates through the westernmost window and the young woman selling roses in Waterloo Station moved a strand of hair out of her face. It shone golden in the sunlight. She had flowers in water buckets of all shapes and sizes around her and bent down to pick a few brown leaves off the yellow roses on her left, before straightening up and wiping her wet hands on her dirty white pinafore. Again the sun blinded her.

She blinked against the sun, as she became aware of a shadow standing right in front of her. A new customer?

"I'm sorry. Better now?" A young voice with a Scottish accent asked. The flower girl didn't know what the woman did to make the sun disappear, but for some reason it didn't sting in her eyes so much anymore. She shook it off; the sun had probably just moved farther behind the houses outside; and looked at the young woman opposite of her.

She was maybe about a year or two older than herself; if asked the flower-girl would have pinpointed her age to be about twenty-eight years. A good-looking woman with a severe black bun; done in a quite odd old fashion, much like her own mother would do her hair, the flower-girl thought. The young woman was wearing a fine green dress below the opened dark autumn coat, in whose deep pockets she had buried her hands. With her high cheekbones and luminous green eyes that studied the flower-girl thoughtfully, she cut a quite impressive figure in spite of her young age.

Uncomfortable by all the attention, she motioned to her flowers:

"Do you want to buy a rose, Miss?"  
>Instead of replying, the woman came back with a question of her own: "Do you have to do this every day?"<p>

"Yes, every day," the flower girl replied distractedly, wondering what the woman was trying to ask her. "My Mum is old you see; Miss…and I am really concerned for her health so I am trying to work as hard as I can to bring money home. This is the best job I got."

She was rambling, the flower girl thought, and reddened a little in embarrassment. "I am sorry, Miss, you probably didn't want to hear about my life."

"No, I asked," the woman replied strongly and the flower girl got the impression that she was a person who was quite decisive in her opinions. "Didn't you have any proper schooling?"

"Well, the Education Act of '44 came a little too late for me, I daresay," the flower girl laughed in wry amusement, "So I stuck to what I got. School used to be quite expensive." The young woman joined into her gentle weary laugh; the laugh of those who had actually experienced war-times, too.

"I know," she said simply. "You know, I'd like to buy a rose. Just one, please. One of those lovely red ones."

"Those ones?" the flower girl asked and pointed to the bouquets of crimson roses standing in a bucket filled with water right next to her, secretly disappointed that the woman wouldn't buy more flowers. _She certainly looks as if she could afford it_, a nasty voice said inside the flower girl's head, but she shushed it quickly; it was not in her nature to be spiteful.

"That's one shilling," she mumbled, wanting to get this over as quickly as she could. Instead of the meagre amount she'd just stated, she suddenly found a five-pounds-note in her hand.

"But Miss, I couldn't possibly-"the flower girl stammered, although her hand closed around the note.

"Take it," the young Scottish woman told her with a gentle smile, "please."

"But," she said again, protesting half-heartedly.

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I'd like to ask you for a favour…" the young woman told her, suddenly looking thoughtful.

"Certainly, Miss," the flower girl replied, waiting and watching as the young woman withdrew a piece of old-looking paper from her robes and wrote a quick message on it. She then tied it to the rose with a green silk band that she tugged out of her bun. The mass of dark hair tumbled past her shoulders and the flower girl stared for the young woman, with her hair gleaming red in the dying sunlight, suddenly didn't seem to be so imposing anymore.

Instead, the sunlight suddenly enhanced the weariness in and around her eyes and the flower girl wondered whether this woman might actually be as dead tired as herself. Not only physically; it was an entirely different sort of weariness that the flower girl knew well. It came to her, sometimes, on long days when no-one would buy flowers and the people seemed just like an uniform mass of clothes and heads...and the days were long and dreary; no matter if the sun shone or not.

The young woman seemed a little embarrassed as she had finished tying the piece of odd-looking paper to the rose. She looked self-conscious with her new hairstyle; as if robbed of an integral part of herself.

"When this young man comes by," the young woman announced and withdrew a picture from her pocket, "please give the rose to him. I would like to see it delivered safely, yet I unfortunately can't stay."

The flower girl looked at the picture the woman showed to her. She couldn't hold back a little gasp; the young man in the picture was very handsome indeed; wearing his hair in a fashionable side parting and his intense look was even clearly visible on the grainy white-and-black picture. There seemed to be an odd kind of seriousness to him, maybe even a whiff of sadness for he didn't laugh in the picture and he also didn't seem to be someone who laughed often.

"What's his name?" the flower girl asked without thinking and then covered her mouth. "I am sorry, it's really none of my business."

"No," the young woman replied and again the gentle tone was back, "I myself would like to apologise for not introducing myself. My name is Minerva, pleased to meet you."

"Lucy," The flower girl mumbled shyly and shook Minerva's soft hand with her own calloused one.

"And he is Tom." An odd, sad sort of smile hushed across Minerva's face. "He is Tom," she repeated and for a moment her eyes were quite moist.

Before Lucy could ask more- her curiosity would be her downfall one day as her Ma daily predicted- Minerva said strongly: "Don't let anyone pull you down, Lucy. You are as good as anyone else. Don't let them make you feel as if you're worth less than them. Why don't you try going back to school? It's certainly worth your time."

"I'll think about it," Lucy replied, casting her eyes down. Minerva's words did make feel her good inside though and a smile came on her face as she said: "I'll see to it that he gets this letter."

"Thank you very much," Minerva sounded grateful. The sadness was still dormant in her eyes though. "We always meet at this bench-"and she indicated a bench to Lucy's left, "so he will definitely come here. He certainly will." Her voice had got suspiciously choked-up at the last sentence and Lucy wondered just who Tom was to this strong woman. A lover? A past lover? It certainly had to do with love, that much she was certain of.

"I've got to go now," Minerva added and handed over the rose with the message, definitely holding back tears now.

"Thank you so much for your kindness, Lucy, and good-bye. I certainly wish you all the best."

Before she could say something in return, Minerva was gone and had disappeared in the crowd. Lucy, curious as she was, at first wanted to read the note, but then a batch of customers came and the note slipped to the back of her mind; the rose safely put away into the front pocket of her pinafore.

On sharp half past five, a young man stood at the bench and Lucy recognised him immediately. He, too, seemed to have appeared just out of thin air.

"Excuse me, sir," she called tentatively and when he didn't react, she stepped closer and said again: "Sorry, sir." The man turned so quickly around to her that she was startled badly. He was a good two heads taller than her and was even more handsome than on the picture, even painfully so with his sharply-cut features and fine dark clothes, but there was an unsettling light in his eyes. Flickering and unsteady, like the light in the eye of a madman. Lucy was suddenly horribly afraid of him.

"Yes?" he said and his voice was polite, yet condescending and cold like the icy winds on a November day. To her surprise, she heard a faint trace of London in that single word.

"Th-this," Lucy stammered out and held the rose out, "this was given to me by a Lady named Minerva. She said I should give it to you, sir."

He took the rose without a word of thanks and read it, features expressionless.

Then, abruptly, he threw the rose away and let out a terrible scream of rage and pain, clenching his fists until the knuckles turned white. Lucy gasped in horror.

As if suddenly becoming aware of her, he turned on her and the light in his eyes was now pure madness. "You," he growled, "stupid little Muggle, you-!" And he advanced with a stick in his hand. "Please," Lucy babbled, more afraid of the man than of this ridiculous stick- maybe he was really mad? A nutter, a bloody nutter! "Please, don't-I didn't know-"

"Didn't know!" he laughed horribly and then muttered a single word "Obliviate!"

Lucy fell over her buckets of flowers and knew no more. When she came to, helped by friendly bypassers, she raised herself on all fours and watched, uncomprehendingly, how a young man right in front of her tore a red rose into shreds with a murderous expression on his handsome face before stalking away.

As he did so, a small slip of paper fell to the ground. Pondering the notion of indiscretion- her Ma had warned her about his after all- the flower girl bent down and picked it up.

It simply said: "Forever good-bye, Tom. Good-bye, my love. Minerva."

* * *

><p><strong>V: Gone, 1998<strong>

The battle with Lord Voldemort was over and had been so for two days now. The families had taken their sons and daughters home, mourning those who they had lost and attempting, slowly, to rebuild a semblance of normality.

Harry, Hermione and Ron had remained in Hogwarts for the time being. None of them felt like going out to answer the questions of the press and public yet. Also, Hogwarts was lying in ruins and so they tried their best to help with the repairs. On the end of a long day, Hermione, who needed some air, saw a familiar figure standing on the twilight-hued meadow leading to the lake. Deep in the west; the sun was dying in a vibrant mix of scarlet and golden.

"Professor McGonagall?" Her favourite Professor and mentor didn't react. Observing her discretely, Hermione found that she looked as though she had aged a good ten years over the course of the last few months; a grey strand had fallen out of her strict bun and the lines on her face were more pronounced than usual. Professor McGonagall's robes were an emerald green and Hermione knew that those were her favourite robes, though she had never understood why.

Professor McGonagall was also clutching what seemed to be an old, dried yellow rose in her hand.

Putting a tentative hand on her Professor's arm Hermione tried again: "Professor?"

Professor McGonagall started as if woken from a deep and disturbing dream.

"Miss Granger. I trust you are as well as the circumstances allow today?" Hermione's concern increased at those tiredly-spoken words.

"I am well, Professor, but-"

"Call me Minerva, please," interrupted Professor McGonagall firmly.

Hermione felt daring and replied boldly: "Then I shall ask you to please call me Hermione."

Some of the exhaustion vanished as Minerva gave Hermione a genuine smile: "Thank you, Hermione."

Hermione looked at the rose in her teacher's hand she had seen earlier. Carefully, she inquired:

"Pro-I mean, Minerva, what is that?"

Minerva McGonagall sighed and didn't reply for quite some time. Only when Hermione didn't think that she'd get a reply did her mentor speak.

"It was given to me by a boy; a long time ago. He was an intelligent boy; a good student, and liked by nearly all of the teachers. He was also sarcastic, cunning and exceptionally understanding- quite handsome, too, if I may say so myself."

Professor McGonagall smiled as if caught in old memories and then added: "We spent most of our time bickering though."

A small smile also came onto Hermione's lips. She could tell that her Professor had loved this boy very much. "What happened to him?"

The weariness that had lain dormant for a few moments seemed to have returned tenfold to Professor McGonagall as she sighed heavily and answered cryptically:

"The man he became died a few days ago in the Great Battle with very few to mourn his passing; but I suppose the boy I knew has been dead for decades."

Hermione looked on in silent shock as sudden understanding dawned on her. Suddenly, a heavy wind came up and tore the rose out of Minerva's loose hold.

Due to its age and its subsequent frailty, it was plucked to pieces and the two of them watched as they were swept away to the lake, becoming tiny specks that danced across the meadow and were finally gone from sight.

A single tear ran down Minerva McGonagall's face as she smiled sadly and held her face into the dying light of the sunset: "You always had to have the last word, didn't you, Tom?"

**Finis**

* * *

><p><em>Annotation: <em>

_The **Education Act 1944** changed the education system for secondary schools in England and Wales. This Act (…) made secondary education free for all pupils. Source: Wikipedia_


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